Dark Was the Night
by magnessina
Summary: Based on "Till I Hear You Sing" With Christine gone, Erik struggles to pull himself back together. He's failing, and it hurts, and then, finally, he thinks he's going insane. But is he really only imagining things? Or is there still some hope for the hopeless? (E/C's happy ending.)


**Oh, hello, hi. It's me again. I've graduated, got some rest, and found this in my drafts. It's a songfic, based on _Till I Hear You Sing_. I know _Love Never Dies_ is quite taboo in our fandom, but I do hope you'll enjoy it.  
**

**It's quite angsty? But with a happy ending. I couldn't do pure angst.**

**Here we go!**

* * *

_The day starts, the day ends  
Time crawls by_

* * *

She was gone.

She was gone for good this time.

And Erik knew he had no one else to blame but himself.

He could've argued that it was the Vicomte's fault; it was Raoul who had turned Christine against him and he was the reason she left.

Or he could've blamed the rest of the world, for shunning him, for ruining his life, for making him a monster.

Or he could've blamed God even, for having given him that horrendous face.

But he knew it was all him. His madness, his crimes, his lies.

And now she was gone.

He suspected the mob had left already as well; he couldn't find the strength to move, though. His hideaway provided him with silence and darkness.

He had a feeling this was what his life would look like from now on: silent and dark.

No more music.

No more Christine.

He really wanted to die.

* * *

_Night steals in, pacing the floor_

_The moments creep,  
Yet I can't bear to sleep_

* * *

Erik found that nights were the most difficult for him.

True, in his _house – _if you could still call this place a house, considering its present state – it didn't make that much of a difference. There were no windows, anyway.

And yet, during the day he kept himself busy. He tried to fix everything the mob ruined. And those people were cruel – they destroyed rooms, his organ, his music, his souvenirs. Virtually everything was damaged.

He tried hard to mend his belongings.

It hurt.

It hurt so much because not only was she gone, but everything he had had been destroyed as well.

He couldn't help but shed some tears when he burnt the torn music sheets in the fireplace.

His music.

His passion.

_Her_.

Gone.

Nights were worse because he had to lie down eventually. And then he had time to think and remember everything and imagine _her _in _that boy's _hands and…

It hurt even more than losing music.

* * *

_Till I hear you sing_

* * *

When he lies on the floor, wide awake in the middle of the night, he remembers Christine onstage. She was radiant whilst performing. Truly phenomenal.

He recalls hearing her sing for the first time.

He was roaming through the corridors when he heard a voice; a little girl singing softly in her dressing room, lighting a candle in front of a photograph of – as he later found out – her father.

Then, there were their voice lessons. When he shaped and modelled her voice until it reached perfection.

The night of her debut.

Countless nights of magnificent performances followed.

He was sure, absolutely positive, he would never hear a voice so clear, so perfect ever again in his life.

Erik was never going to experience this joy, the joy of seeing her onstage, again. She was always so focused on her job, she forgot it wasn't even real. Every cell, every fibre in her body would come alive, and she was not Christine anymore – she became the character. It was an honour to witness it.

This now hurt, too.

* * *

_And weeks pass, and months pass_

_Seasons fly_

* * *

He wasn't sure how much time passed since Christine had left him.

Well, to be perfectly honest she didn't flat out leave him; he might've urged her a little.

Again, he wasn't sure. He was a little hazy on the details as far as that particular night was concerned.

Christine was gone, and that was all that really mattered.

He knew the Opera was open again; they repaired what the fire destroyed and, from what Madame Giry told him, the managers were glad people wanted to see the place where such a _tragedy_ took place – the Phantom kidnapping a young soprano, the brave Vicomte rescuing her, the mob, the destruction…

It did attract the public.

It must've been… a while.

A few months, perhaps.

Maybe half a year.

Erik wasn't sure.

But the pain was as raw as if it happened yesterday.

* * *

_Still you don't walk through the door_

* * *

When he awoke one morning, he couldn't breathe.

He was gasping for air and his heart was pounding in his chest.

It was the first time when Erik couldn't remember Christine face.

He couldn't recall her eyes' shape.

Her chin.

Whether she had any birthmarks.

Or the way she smiled.

He couldn't, no matter how hard he tried, remember all these tiny details. Which was insane, really, and absolutely unexpected as he thought her face would be that one thing that would stay with him forever. He would recognise her immediately, of course, but he couldn't recall any precious_ god damned_ details.

He did remember, however, the disgust in her eyes when he threatened her fiancé.

Her sadness when he made her choose.

Her tears when she turned around and left his lair.

And yet, it was impossible for him to remember her ever being happy. He just couldn't tell.

He gasped again. Erik was shocked; he was certain that thinking about her every second of every day would be enough to never forget what she looked like.

But he had.

And he knew that there would come a moment when he wouldn't be able to recall anything about her.

He didn't get up that day.

* * *

_And in a haze  
I count the silent days_

* * *

It turns out it has been, indeed, almost six months since that… _eventful_ night. He confirmed his suspicions when Madame Giry left the morning paper in the basket full of necessities she would bring him every few days.

It was Christmas Eve.

Yet another Christmas spent all alone.

No joy, no Christmas spirit, no laughter, no gifts.

He should've got used to this by then. But the truth was, he did dream about having somebody with whom he could celebrate Christmas.

He doubted there was any person out there who desperately wanted to be lonely in that time of the year.

He had never had anyone. His mother wouldn't acknowledge him anyway, then there were the Gypsies and after that, a quiet solitude in the Opera's underground.

Erik wondered whether Christine was happy.

He was positive she and the Vicomte got married already. It was their first Christmas together as a husband and wife, then.

Erik smiled sadly.

One hundred seventy nine days since he last saw her.

Thousands more to go.

* * *

_And sometimes at night time  
I dream that you are there_

_But wake holding nothing but the empty air_

* * *

Usually, at night, he couldn't sleep. His mind was too busy trying to play out every moment they spent together, relive old conversations, trying to remember her face.

Frantically.

When he was too exhausted, however, he dreamt of her.

He didn't see her, but he knew she was there.

Sometimes they were happy; sometimes they hurt each other.

There were so many different scenarios.

Often, these dreams felt so real he almost believed they were true.

But soon Erik would wake up, a small smile playing on his lips, just to realise he was alone.

And his Christine was happy.

Without him.

With another man, who was now holding her close, perhaps placing his hand upon her swollen belly.

His mind was cruel.

Perhaps he was a masochist, though. Because he cherished these few hours when he could pretend he was worthy of Christine's love.

And that _they _were happy.

Together.

* * *

_Time runs dry_

_Still I ache down to the core_

* * *

He once heard that with time, things get better. That it heals all wounds.

Well, it was apparently another lie, with which people came up in order to comfort others.

It had been six months, and yet every cell in his body still hurt. Nothing helped, really. He had been trying to bring his lair back to its former shape for weeks now, but he could only busy himself for a few hours a day. The rest was spent on... sulking, really.

With his music gone, he didn't know what to do with himself.

He tried to spend his evenings reading.

His mind tended to wander, though.

And so he would be back to thinking about her.

It was sick, it was unhealthy, it was painful.

It was the only thing that kept her real.

* * *

_My broken soul_  
_Can't be alive and whole_

* * *

He sometimes wondered if he should just end it.

What was the point, really?

His life was over the moment Christine gave him the ring back.

It was over when she turned around, even though he fell down to his knees, begging her to stay, whispering soft "I love you's."

She didn't come back.

She went to her young, rich Vicomte, and she sang to him, promising him her forever.

It had been months, and she still didn't come back.

Hell, she had probably not spared him a single thought since that god awful night.

So, why should he continue to live?

There was no one who would care about it. His death, that is. He would probably rot in his lair, that Giry woman not even bothering to do something with his cursed body.

He was a coward, though, Erik supposed.

He couldn't make himself do it.

Perhaps it was for the best.

Perhaps he should suffer, until Satan comes for him, for all the crimes he had committed.

* * *

_Till I hear you sing once more_

* * *

One night, just before the New Year's Eve, the hallucinations started.

Erik had _no _idea what was happening, but he was bloody glad it was.

A Christine was there. With him.

He was just sitting on the floor, his head buried between his knees, when he heard that voice. He would recognise it anywhere, even in the pits of hell, and he immediately knew he was dreaming.

Or going insane.

He didn't mind either, at all, as long as she stayed with him.

"Angel?"

He started crying quietly, despite himself, not wanting to lift his head up, not wanting to realise it was not real.

"Hey, look at me," the voice said.

"I don't want to," he answered. It was silly, to reply to nothingness, but he didn't care. No one saw him doing it, right?

"Angel, you've got to look at me. You may hate me, but I need to know you're okay."

"Stop it," Erik begged.

"No. Look at me."

And he finally, albeit reluctantly, did.

And his Christine was with him.

"Oh, Christine."

* * *

_And music, your music_  
_It teases at my ear_

* * *

The whole thing was plain strange, as Erik was quite certain that the creation of his imagination should not be stroking his thin hair, nor hum a soft lullaby so that he would calm down.

But _it _was, and he was impressed; he must be really going insane, and fast, if he actually felt _its_ touch.

Truly remarkable, indeed.

"I'm so glad you seem fine," the Christine said.

"I'm hardly glad, my dear."

"You do look even thinner than before, but it's easily fixable. I feared the worst."

"You thought you'd find me dead?"

"I did, yes."

"You're a funny, funny thing," he smirked.

"How so?"

"Well, were I dead, you wouldn't be here at all."

"What do you mean?"

"I wouldn't be able to create you. Imagine you, if you will. Thus, you're being quite a goofball right now."

"Oh, Angel. You think I'm a figment of your imagination?"

"Why of course. The real Christine is with her husband now, probably expecting, too. Nice try."

And then they fell silent.

Erik buried his head between his knees again.

Fake or not, he felt lighter than he had in ages.

* * *

_I turn and it fades away and you're not here_

* * *

"And so she's gone," he whispered when he looked around some time later.

True enough, there was no sign of his lovely hallucination.

A shame, truly, but he hoped it would happen again. Sooner rather than later, too.

"No such luck, Angel. I'm here alright."

His head snapped to his side, and he saw the Christine smiling gently at him.

Unexpectedly painful, but incredibly joyful a sight at the same time.

"What are you still doing here?"

"I came back. And I shall wait for you to believe I am real before I tell you why."

He groaned, his head coming to rest against the cold wall behind him.

"I can't deal with it. It's been six months, and I've yet to get over one loss. I feel like I can't have you leave again, even though you're fake, but I wish you'd go. It's getting bizarre and mildly alarming. I'd rather die of hunger than go insane, I think."

"What is your name?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"What is your name?"

"_I _have created you. _You_ know."

"Well, I don't. Here's your answer. I am real."

* * *

_Let hopes pass, let dreams pass_  
_Let them die_

_Without you, what are they for?_

* * *

"Don't do this to me," Erik moaned, fighting back tears threatening to spill.

"I'm not trying to hurt you, Angel." The Christine rushed to his side, kneeling down by his side. "You just have to believe me. Here, touch me."

He opened his eyes and bit on his lip. This was the oddest thing he had ever encountered, but it didn't hurt to give it a chance, now, did it?

No one was there.

No one would laugh at the poor, unhappy Erik if the Christine proved to be fake.

His hope would die at last, and then, maybe, he would be brave enough to die as well.

Finally.

Slowly, oh so slowly, he reached to the hand she had offered.

And he touched it.

And it was _warm_. And _soft_.

And very much _alive_.

"Christine?" He whispered, his other hand flying to cover his mouth.

"I should think so." She smiled.

* * *

_I'll always feel_  
_No more than halfway real_

* * *

"What are you doing here?"

"I came back, I told you."

"But... why?"

He wasn't touching her. After that first time, he crawled away from her; as if he tried to remain... _sane_.

Erik feared that as soon as she embraced him, he would fall apart. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to pull himself together again.

So he kept his distance, hoping to keep his mind sharp and focused on all these pressing issues, namely why she was here, why she came back, where the Vicomte was and so on.

It was infuriating, because he had so many questions, and she kept smiling at him softly.

He wasn't wearing a mask, either, so all of that just didn't make any sense _at all_, and it was bloody annoying.

"Because I couldn't live without you."

Erik closed his eyes in exasperation.

"That's very... touching, I guess, but forgive me for being quite unconvinced. You've been just fine for the last six months. I can't see why you would suddenly change your mind."

"Fine? Suddenly? Oh, Angel, if you only knew..."

"It's Erik. My name. It's Erik. I'm anything but an Angel."

"Erik," Christine repeats, tasting his name on her tongue. "Oh, Erik, if you knew how much I wanted to come back as soon as I entered Raoul's house..."

"But you didn't."

"I was so afraid," she cried out. "So horrified. What happened that night... I was but a child, Erik. I didn't know what I was doing. But you told me to go, even though I chose you, and I thought it was the right thing to do. My best option, if you will. Raoul was so sweet, so loving... I thought it would be enough."

"And...?" He pressed.

"It wasn't. He remained sweet and loving, but I missed your passion. Your raw emotion. Your _fire_. What you did was wrong, so very wrong, Erik, and I'm not going to try to explain your choices, your actions, or defend you, for that matter. I'm not going to pretend what you did was right. But there are also different memories... You weren't always that... manic. You were passionate, inspiring, supportive. And I realised that I would never be happy with Raoul, in that safe and routine-driven relationship. I want you. I want you to respect me and to treat me as your equal, and it's gonna take so much for us to make it work. But I'm willing to try. I want you to love me."

* * *

_Till I hear you sing_  
_Once more_

* * *

He sat in silence, contemplating her words. Trying to make some sense out of this utter chaos.

"You want me?"

"I do, yes."

"Then you shall have me."

Christine gasped and laughed, clearly relieved.

"Truly? You forgive me?"

"Forgive you?" Erik asked, shaking his head. "I've got nothing to forgive you. It is I who should be begging for your forgiveness. I should never have made you choose, or threaten your fiancé. I should have... I should have done so many things differently."

"It's no matter. We'll make things right between us. We'll fix it. We'll heal. And we'll do it together."

"There's such a long way before us, Christine."

"We've got all the time in the world."

"So you will be mine?"

"Forever."

That was all he had ever dreamt of.

* * *

**Ah, I'm glad I've finally got to post it. **

**If you, by any chance, read _Moonlight Serenade, _I'm tempted to write some one-shots/future-takes from that verse. Any wishes? Do write to me. **

**Hope to see you again one day, and thank you so much for reading!**


End file.
